


The gift from the first of the Gal Vorbak

by Greykite



Category: Horus Heresy - Various Authors, Warhammer 40k (Novels) - Various Authors
Genre: Body Horror, Dark Magic, Gen, John French meets ADB (metaphorically), Sacrifices, Speculation, Typical Word Bearers stuff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 05:34:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24718354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Greykite/pseuds/Greykite
Summary: "Last of all, he turned and stepped to the side of the room where his mask-helm looked down from his weapons rack. Its face snarled at him with frozen rage. Twin rows of three eyes ran down the cheeks, each eye burning like a furnace coal. Its mouth was a wide pit of sharp silver. Two shards of obsidian rose in horns from its brows. It had been a gift from the first of the Gal-Vorbak, and he wore it always except in brief moments of solitary contemplation."(с)John French, "Slaves to darkness"
Kudos: 5





	The gift from the first of the Gal Vorbak

From the shadows in the niche between the pillars that supported the high dome of the hall, Argel Tal watched eight young warriors kneeling.

All were Colchisians, of the latest recruitments from their homeworld; all had fought on Isstvan-V.

Their heads were bowed in reverence. Every mouth whispered a prayer. There were fresh scars on their faces: concentric circles and multi-ray stars, tongues of flames and comet tails.

Each of these warriors drunk Argel Tal's blood.

Each of them believed that he could be chosen.

And Argel Tal had lied to each of them. By the will of his father and lord; but still he lied.

In other shaded niches there were - also on their knees, with foreheads to the floor, - shackled mortals who devoted themselves to the gods. Their monotonous voices, chanting a hymn from the Book of Lorgar, slid along the edge of the Word Bearer's hearing, no longer touching him seriously.

The singing of the prayer choir reached its highest point — and stopped.

The warriors, as one, put on their helmets. They froze, arms crossed in front of them.

Argel Tal counted down the seconds until…

Yes. Here it was.

The Geller field in the special part of the ship - that had been designated for the ritual - had been turned off.

Argel Tal forbade himself to turn away as the eight warriors began to writhe. Their backs arched in ways that their full armor should not allow; their heads and fists thumped the floor in helpless, screaming agony. Swollen finger-claws dug into the shoulder pads, as if trying to rip off the armor, like a snake-skin.

Raum stirred inside Argel Tal’s soul. He liked it.

The polished black floor of the hall reflected the crimson glare from the armor that moved unnaturally, twisting, growing into the body, sprouting blood-bone spikes. Sacred signs etched into the ceramite flared with the iridescent fire from the Sea of Souls.

The screams were strangely silent. Only the faceplates of warriors’ helmets gaped open, dripping smoke,and huge fangs protruded from them.

Argel Tal watched. His own bones ached with a phantom pain of recognition, but he stifled this feeling.

As the figures of the warriors altered by the warp-folk began to freeze motionless, Argel Tal stepped out of the shadows and strode into the center of the hall.

The stench could be felt even through the helmet's filters; it was almost nauseating, mingling with the incense from the bowls suspended from the ceiling.

Of the eight warriors who had volunteered to become the Twice-Born, only one remained. He was still twitching.

His helmet now had three pairs of eyes-lenses - yellow, not blue; each one was dripping with sulphurous tears.

The dagger-sharp pit-mouth snarled at Argel Tal, dripping with saliva. The acid, as it was dropping, eroded the blackness of the floor to a migraine rainbow.

"Do it," Raum breathed.

Argel Tal's fingers — almost claws now, already — clenched at his hip, searching for a battle knife.

But it was just a reflex, and a moment later the young warrior's chest was pierced by these very daemonic claws that glittered like blood-red iron.

Argel Tal breathed out the word-that-was-not-a-word - hating the way it slide against his tongue, as if cutting the inside of his mouth.

Then he actually reached for the knife.

Argel Tal found the fastenings on the altered helm and used the knifepoint to pick out weak spots, while Raum filled his muscles with the necessary strength and dexterity.

There was no telling how long it otherwise would have taken him to separate the Space Marine's head from the body, but now it was all done as it was intended, even before the second heart had stopped beating. The part of the daemon that remained in the changed flesh, fused into one with the armor, will not disappear anywhere.

_("Even the sacrifice of the weeded-out is not in vain, for in the traces of their blood we read the path of the future. So many have already died simply to pave the way for the new Gal Vorbak. Let these eight die in the name of the gift to the one who is chosen."_

_"Chosen, father?"_

_"He is also marked by the gods. Not like you, though. You'll understand, when you see him.")_

The warrior’s lifeless body — Argel Tal had forbidden himself to remember his name here and now - collapsed like a sack.

Argel Tal hefted the head in his hand, holding it by the almost straight, only slightly curved back, obsidian horn. He adjusted his hand and slid the blade of the knife inside the helmet, under the breathing tubes, twisting the rest of the vertebral column from the base of the skull that had fused with the helmet.

Deformed, overgrown vertebrae, plastered with brain tissue, fell wetly to the floor.

(The slaves will clean it up. Later. Like everything else).

Argel Tal plunged the knife into the soft tissue once more. There were still a lot of meat inside — and how could it be otherwise? It is doubtful that he will be able to clean the entire skull in one attempt — and not break something important.

"Leave it to the younger brothers," Raum hissed.

Argel Tal could sense the daemons gliding through the hall at the edge of their shared consciousness. And he could feel Raum snapping at them, with something like possessive loyalty.

He paused, frowning. The daemon must have sensed his doubt.

"The younger brothers will eat the carrion. Will leave mark. A living trace to a dead one."

Yes. They both, together, — he and the demon (the brother; his only brother) - have read from the lines written in bloody ink on the pages made of human skin.

The echo of souls that failed a little earlier, and the echo of daemons that tried to merge with them, will change the... sacred gift. This helmet.

"A living trace," Raum repeated with a slick hiss. “A reminder. As you remember, as you always wound yourself to remember."

The thought that came into Argel Tal’s mind don’t belong to him: the image of a bone hook ripping a chunk out of flesh, exposing a wet wound.

Argel Tal parted his lips in what was not a grin. He didn't argue with the way Raum saw it. Not now.

“So be it," he said aloud. "The word is spoken.”

In any case, his role as a witness has already been fulfilled.

Argel Tal withdrew his knife. Shook off it the gray, slimy bits and bone dust.

He would wait and come back later.

***  
Zardu Layak stepped onto the landing deck of the _Fidelitas Lex_ and bowed his head respectfully to the Crimson Lord, who was waiting him.

The first of the Gal Vorbak was not wearing a helmet now, and his face seemed just ordinary, unremarkable — the dark skin of a native Colchisian, smooth and almost devoid of scars. Proportionate but simple facial features.

The watchful gray eyes looked up at Layak, and he sensed a will in them that could not be easily broken. Will, but not attempt to competition of wills, however.

"Greetings, Lord of the Unspeaking," Argel Tal said. He made no sign that he was paying attention to the blade slaves who were following Layak everywhere.

"Greetings, The Blessed Son. I came by the word of the Primarch.”

“And the Primarch will see you,” said Argel Tal. “But first come with me.”

He spoke just as simply as he looked, with the usual directness of a warrior.

 _Not "follow me",_ Layak noted to himself. _“Come with me”_.

Taking advantage of this hint, Layak did not follow one step behind Argel Tal all the way through the tangled side corridors of the flagship, but kept almost abreast of him, maintaining the minimum prescribed respectful distance.

The Crimson Lord moved smoothly and quickly, but without haste — rather, as if nothing held him on this side of the Veil. As one might expect from a sacred chosen one.

Layak's armor hummed, not with servos, but with souls, as if invisible hands were clenching over his muscles.

_("Commendable work, my son," the Primarch's voice echoed in his mind. "But incomplete one. The completion of your armor will be that which is both the end and the beginning, the merging and the division."_

_"What is it, my lord?"_

_"You'll find out. Go to my beloved son, marked by the Gods, and find out." The Primarch smiled, a serene golden smile that could not be denied or refused.)_

They passed through an archway draped with gold cloth embroidered with black threads. The whole pattern was familiar to Layak: he had drawn similar lines and circles with blood mixed with sacrificial ashes. That was to channel the warp currents properly in the summoning ritual. But such a variation he had never seen before.

Argel Tal looked directly at the blade slaves for the first time, and Layak knew what he meant. A mental order, and the blade slaves remained outside.

Once inside, Layak glanced quickly from side to side. In the niches behind the columns, he saw the crouched carcasses of mortals, clad in gray and scarlet robes. Their souls were devoured by the Neverborn; it could be sensed.

Layak could also smell the incense that had been completely extinguished only a few hours ago, and the blood that had congealed and dried. Traces of the patterns scorched by the warp-flames were still smouldering on the floor.

All this confirmed him in his surmise.

A sacrifice was made here.

He straightened up. He closed his eyes. Again he inhaled the blessed mixture through his unprotected nostrils: sweat, bodily secretions, acidic saliva, sulfur, and more blood.

His lips began to say prayer.

“See why you were called," the voice of the Crimson Lord interrupted. For anyone other than the Primarch, anointed in the eyes of the Gods as their High Priest, to interfere in the course of a prayer would be a sin: except in a moment of overwhelming need.

However, Layak did not feel indignation. Only a reverential trembling, and his armor trembled with him, changing shape slightly with each heartbeat.

He turned at the voice.

Argel Tal held out to him a… helmet. A snarling snout with three pairs of slanting eyes, with thin bared fangs of dazzling whiteness. The eyes looked dim, but ready to flash if a worthy person looked at the world by them. The mask was the color of meat under the freshly flayed skin — not the contemplative deep red of his armor - but Layak realized immediately that these things were two parts of a whole.

Out of time, in the halls of the stars and the gods, they were meant to join together.

So Layak accepted the sacred gift with both hands, carefully and reverently.

The helmet seemed to breathe, changing shape slightly in the cup of his ceramite gloves.

“I personally supervised the ritual," the Crimson Lord assured him. “The helmet is equipped as it should be. By Lorgar's word.”

"By his word," Layak said.

With one hand, he fastened the helmet to his hip, and with the other, he removed the obsidian knife from his belt.

He said a prayer: hoping for the pain that leads to knowledge.

He hooked his fingers under his right eyelid, pulled it so that only the very edge remained above the eye socket, and slashed. A few moments later, the same fate befell the left eyelid.

Blood flowed into his eyes, but Layak didn't notice. He saw something else.

The knife fell to the floor.

The black floor seemed to absorb the sound, to eat it completely. Or maybe Layak just couldn't hear anything over the sound of his blood boiling with primordial, silent awe.

With both hands, Layak felt the gift again, before putting it on. Before giving _this_ to himself.

This. _Completeness_.

Something that had always eluded him until now — as it had eluded forever the gift-giver standing before him.

And this gift-giver exuded — now Layak could see and feel it clearly - the heat, the painful and sacred heat, like a split black coal.

And when the hooks on the inside of the mask-helmet bit into the flesh of his cheeks, tearing to the gums, Layak bowed his head before the Crimson Lord — and knelt.

“I will keep this gift forever.”

The Crimson Lord's face did not change, but the dark scarlet ragged wings behind him (visible only now) stirred. Opened slightly.

He did not turn his gaze to where the blood-stained fragments of flesh were drying.

His gaze - gray, calm (scarlet, seething with sacred hatred and contempt) - never left Layak. His mask. His _face_.

“You're going to Calth, aren't you?"

Layak inclined his head. 

“That's the trial.”

The second, daemonic face of the Crimson Lord broke into a smile. The first, original face had something on it… Layak would have frowned, but the hooks would not let him do so. Something akin to... sympathy?

(Blasphemy. It's not the feeling appropriate for the chosen of the gods.)

“Do you think you can pass it?"

“Only the gods can know. However, our father and lord has chosen me for what is to be done in the Veridia system. I expect the word from him, and I will obey him.”

Argel Tal nodded again.

"So be it.”

Without rising from his knees, Layak began to recite the prayer again, and the voice of the Crimson Lord repeated the ritual refrain "So be it" every time he finished the verse.

The heat of his soul (his two souls) was searing without warming.

Without saying another word to each other, they left the ritual hall.

Argel Tal seemed about to offer Layak a parting hand, as was customary in the Legions, wrist to wrist, but at the last moment he checked himself.

Once again, the blade slaves obediently stood behind Layak, to his left and right. The lenses of the mask showed him the way with the glow of distorted, ever-changing Colchisian runes.

The meeting with the Primarch could not wait any longer.

“You were chosen. But remember the fate of the chosen, Lord of the Unspeaking." - Layak heard suddenly.

He turned around. The Crimson Lord's back continued to recede toward the landing decks.

Ragged wings, invisible to mortal vision, trailed behind him.

 _I'll remember,_ Layak told himself. _I'll remember that truly.”_

He didn't look back again.

**Author's Note:**

> This fragment of the book has been haunting me since I read it first time. And so.  
> I hope both "heroes" are in character here.
> 
> I translated this from Russian to English myself, so if there are any errors, please point them out to me.


End file.
